Mint leaves
by Steviacookies
Summary: Mint leaves are both sweet and sour, and so is life, and so is love. And feelings can wither and rot so easily. - [Lysa/Petyr/Catelyn]


Rain is light, in Riverrun. Sweet drops that greet the soil, a gentle, moist caress.

Lysa is in the middle of the yard; she is making mud cakes.

Catelyn is not helping her as usual, not today. She's staring at the gray sky, pensively.

The silence of raindrops is disturbed only by the wet sound of mud.

- They say it never rains in the North.

Lysa answers with an inarticulate murmur of assent, as her white hands go on delving into the muck; it is lukewarm, it wraps around them as a pair of silken gloves.

Catelyn is twelve, her auburn hair tangled and soaked, her eyes filled with clouds.

- They say only snow exists, in the North. And that cold kills everything. And that the White Walkers wander in the lands of ice beyond the Wall.

She has heard her father speaking with some envoys, something about her, a betrothing, the Starks, alliances, and other things she couldn't quite catch.

And she may be two-and-ten, but she is not stupid.

- What is snow like? - she asks, lost in thought.

She keeps on staring at the sky, and yet, yet she can't understand.

In Riverrun, it never snows.

Lysa has seen snow once, when she's gone North with their Lord father.

- It's like rain, just white and cold, Cat.

- Like rain.

- Yes, just not as, hmm, liquid. It's more like, I don't know, sugar.

- And can you eat it?

Lysa drops the brown cake, it falls apart and is reabsorbed by the drenched ground with a splash.

Her cheeks are mud stained, but rain will wash them clean.

- Yes. Yes, you can.

- And what does it taste like?

- It tastes like... cold.

What a stupid answer, Catelyn thinks, but, at the same time, she believes it.

The Starks, alliances, and a cold, white, dry rain you can eat, there, in the North.

- And what does cold taste like?

- I don't know, Cat, why should I know? - Lysa grumbles, and resumes working on the mud: she will have to smooth the rough sides off, if she wants it perfectly round and as smooth as a veil. She is going to show it to Petyr, when she is done.

Quietness engulfs them. The raindrops tap on the ground.

Catelyn glances up, once again, hoping to find a shard of truth in the great greyness of the clouds.

But, after minutes of silence, she can hear Lysa mutter quietly – It tastes like mint.

* * *

- You know you can tell me everything, Cat.

They are lying in the shadow of a tree and the sky is tinted of that blue hue that can only be found over Riverrun, it promises long years of summer and fields of flowers.

And Catelyn, her eyes as bright and blue as the sky, her hair of the color of pomegranates- Catelyn is five-and-ten and she has never been more beautiful.

It is a foolish thought, seeing that he thinks it every time he sees her. But now Petyr feels it could be true.

- There is nothing to say; our Lord father has introduced me to Lord Stark and his family. And then Lysa and I visited Winterfell.

She is using her Tully-ish voice, she is using her official self; Petyr knows that the real Catelyn is dying to tell him something else.

He encourages her with a grin.

- And?

Catelyn laughs.

- And I tasted snow.

He can't but laugh himself. Her smile is the true sun of Riverrun.

An idle cloud is drifting slowly through the wideness of the blue.

- I missed you, Petyr.

He can feel her fingers grasping tenderly his arm and his heart beating faster; he curses himself, because, he- he is an idiot, he is a big, damned fool.

- There were some beautiful horses, in Winterfell, you would have surely liked them...

Petyr looses himself in her words, he doesn't even know anymore when one ends and another starts; he basks in the sound of Catelyn's voice, it is the only thing he needs.

- … oh, and a library- immense, I tell you!

He can smell the sweet scent of her hair; like flowers, and spring, and lights on the river when the sun begins to lower.

- … we built a huge snow castle, with windows made of twigs and bark too, but Lysa, stupid Lysa; she...

And, then, he interrupts her.

- What about him?

There is no need to specify the subject, both of them know whom he is speaking about.

Catelyn's smile widens and Petyr's heart shrinks a little bit.

- He is the most handsome man I have ever seen.

Petyr suddenly remembers he is too skinny and too short.

He smiles as wide as her, but his eyes don't know how to pretend, he has still to learn.

Luckily – or unluckily, that's something he hasn't decided yet – she doesn't notice.

- See? I told you, Cat.

- You were right, Petyr. Of course, - she laughs lightly, as she squeezes his arm tighter - you are always right.

For a while, they stay silent, drowned by the sound of summer and wind.

It is a comfortable silence, one that says they are right for each other.

But then Catelyn speaks again.

- His father will ask for my hand in marriage, you know? And you will follow me to the North.

- Oh, yes - his voice is dripping sarcasm - I can picture it, Lady Stark.

- Oh, stop it; I've already decided – she's trying hard to suppress another laughter, her blue eyes shining with sweet malice - you will come with me and you will be my bridesmaid at the wedding.

- Bridesmaid? You wound me, my Lady. But, if this is your wish, so be it.

Petyr gets up and bows mockingly.

- For you, I am willing to become the first bearded bridesmaid of Westeros. I would never deny you anything, my Lady.

And Catelyn keeps on laughing, and her smiles hurt him so much. She pulls him down, throws him again with his back on the grass.

When her laughter dies away, her smile persists, and it's different now, Petyr can see it: it's dreamy, it watches in the distance, far away, as far as the walls of Winterfell.

Without a doubt, it doesn't even see him.

Catelyn murmurs softly.

- It will be perfect. We will marry and it will be perfect, and I will actually become Lady Stark, and I will be perfect, I will make sure I will; and him- he is so, so...

- Perfect?

- Yes. Perfect. We will marry, we will live in Winterfell, and our children will have Tully hair and Stark strength, and – she adds, sparkling with delight - and our first kiss will taste like mint.

Petyr rises an eyebrow.

- Like mint.

- Yes. Like mint.

* * *

Lysa is trembling and rage makes her ears ring, noisier than the bards singing in the corner.

And Catelyn- Catelyn is dancing as if nothing happened.

The scene is still embedded in Lysa's eyes and it keeps on flashing through her mind cruelly, again and again, replaying and replaying, and she's never thought – she could have never imaged – so many kinds of pain existed.

When Petyr has kissed Catelyn, Lysa felt like someone was twisting a cold, sharp dagger in her chest. And yet, when Catelyn rejected him, laughing, Petyr's expression did simply kill her. She yearned death, yes, Lysa did, when she noticed a single tear slipping from his mint-green eyes.

And now Catelyn is dancing. My sister, she finds herself thinking, is a monster.

How can Petyr love her? Because what Petyr feels for her is clearly love.

Lysa knows it and is strong enough to not deny it. She clenches her teeth.

Because she is fairer than I am, she understands sourly, her hair are redder and her eyes bluer.

But Lysa loves him, Lysa would give him everything. Is that not enough?

She didn't even register herself getting up; her feet are leading her somewhere, away from the music.

She sees Catelyn gazing at her, for an instant, and something that could be regret -impossible, she doesn't deserve Petyr, she is a monster – in her eyes.

Lysa casts a winter cold glance – colder than the North she so likes – in her direction and walks toward the tables.

Only Brynden Tully is there, with a cup of summer wine in his hand.

- Where is Petyr?

Her uncle is slowed down by the wine, and takes some time before answering.

- The boy was drinking himself to death. These youngsters, they think they're adults just because they manage to gulp down some damned wine; he fainted on the table. I took him to the inn. Next morning he will learn what drinking really means, that boy, mark my word, he will throw up his very soul!

A guttural laughter shakes his chest as he empties the cup down in his throat.

But Lysa is no longer there, for she has already started running toward the inn- her septa always tells her a real Lady doesn't run in public, but Lysa runs, as fast as her legs permit, until her hands knock against the wooden door of the inn.

Petyr is upstairs, the innkeeper that stinks of ale and dirty dishes tells her.

And, without even thanking him, Lysa is already sprinting up the stairs. She trips over the hem of her gown, and scratches her knees, they're bleeding, she think, but she only wants to reach Petyr's room.

There it is; suddenly, all the hurry seems to vanish.

She wavers, in front of the door, and then, slowly, so slowly, pushes it with one finger. It's unlocked.

It opens with a creak and she is in.

A groan greets her, and Petyr's slurred voice mutters -Is it you?

- Yes.

Lysa knows what that question meant, and knows she shouldn't have answered. Because Lysa isn't her.

But she likes to think she can delude herself, just a moment, just tonight.

- Yes, it's me.

She closes the door and steps in the dim room as quietly as she can, brushing the floor on tiptoe. She sneaks to the bed and eventually sees him.

His bloodshot eyes are swollen and an unnatural smile cuts his face.

- Why did it end this way? - Petyr rasps.

To see him like this, to heard his voice cracked by alcohol and broken, so very broken- it's too much.

- Stories don't go this way. It is not fair. It is not fair. She danced with me. Six times. Stories don't end this way.

Lysa places her hand on his forehead and whispers everything she has always wanted to say.

- Hush, quiet now. Don't worry. I am here.

Petyr catches her hand and squeezes it, her cold fingers against his burning brow.

- Stories don't end this way – he mumbles, one last time; his moans are chocked by the silence.

Everything stops for what seems eternity, the moon in the black ink sky rises; Lysa is even afraid of breathing, she would like to remain in this perfect stasis forever.

But Petyr is watching her, with a look he has never given her.

- Could you kiss me, please? - his voice trembles, his voice prays.

And, again, Lysa answers when she should know better.

- Yes.

Lysa is not ready, she doesn't expect it, when Petyr rises abruptly and turns her chin.

She is not ready, for she has always dreamed this moment would be different, with a love declaration and promises of eternity, and her name whispered, and-

She was waiting for a tender kiss, a gentle kiss, because her Petyr was gentle; she was not waiting for this.

She is not ready, and this is the most perfect and most painful moment of her life.

Perfect, because Petyr is only hers and is only thinking about her, and her breasts, and the lips he is biting, and then he is throwing her on the bed; he is watching her, her and her only.

Painful, because his kisses taste sickeningly of wine and – she should ignore it, she should ignore it – mint.

As Petyr takes off her gown, she tries hard not to remember how Catelyn always says, with dreamy smiles, "I am sure my first true kiss will taste of cold, of mint".

And she fails.

And she sighs.

It is the sweetest pain.

- Oh, Cat.

* * *

Notes:

This will be a collection of five chapters, with the evolution of this three characters seen through their three PoVs.

As English is not my first language, please, let me know, if you find any errrors. Someday I'll start looking for a betareader, but what do I say to the god of betareaders? Not today.

This is like the third times I try to upload this thing. It'd better work this time.


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